Cat O'Nine Tales

Maestro

The Italians are the only race I know who have the ability to serve without appearing subservient. The French will happily spill sauce all over your favourite tie, with no hint of an apology, at the same time cursing you in their native tongue. The Chinese don’t speak to you at all, and the Greeks think nothing of leaving you alone for an hour before they even offer you a menu. The Americans are at pains to let you know that they aren’t really waiters at all, but out-of-work actors, who then proceed to recite the specials on the menu as if performing for an audition. The English are quite likely to engage you in a long conversation, leaving an impression that you ought to be having dinner with them, rather than your guest, and as for the Germans... well, when did you last eat at a German restaurant?

So it is left to the Italians to sweep the board and gather up the crumbs. They combine the charm of the Irish, the culinary expertise of the French and the thoroughness of the Swiss, and despite their ability to produce a bill that never seems to add up, we allow them to go on fleecing us.

This was certainly true of Mario Gambotti.

Mario came from a long line of Florentines who could not sing, paint or play football, so he happily joined his fellow exiles in London, where he began an apprenticeship in the restaurant business.

Whenever I go to his fashionable little restaurant in Fulham for lunch, he somehow manages to hide his disapproval when I order minestrone soup, spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti classico.

‘What an excellent choice, maestro,’ he declares, not bothering to scribble down my order on his pad. Please note ‘maestro’: not my lord, which would be sycophantic, not sir, which would be ridiculous after twenty years of friendship, but maestro, a particularly flattering sobriquet, as I have it on good authority (his wife) that he has never read one of my books.

When I was in attendance at North Sea Camp open prison, Mario wrote to the governor and suggested that he might be allowed to come down one Friday and cook lunch for me. The governor was amused by the request, and wrote a formal reply, explaining that should he grant the boon, it would not only break several penal regulations, but undoubtedly stir the tabloids into a frenzy of headlines. When the governor showed me a copy of his reply, I was surprised to see that he had signed the letter, yours ever, Michael.

‘Are you also a customer of Mario’s?’ I enquired.

‘No,’ replied the governor, ‘but he has been a customer of mine.’

Mario’s can be found on the Fulham Road in Chelsea, and the restaurant’s popularity is due in no small part to his wife, Teresa, who runs the kitchen. Mario always remains front of house. I regularly have lunch there on a Friday, often accompanied by my two sons and their latest girlfriends, who used to change more often than the menu.

Over the years I have become aware that many of the customers are regulars, which leaves an impression that we are all part of an exclusive club, in which it’s almost impossible to book a table unless you are a member. However, the real proof of Mario’s popularity is that the restaurant does not accept credit cards — cheques, cash and account-paying customers are all welcome, but NO CREDIT CARDS is printed in bold letters at the foot of every menu.

During the month of August the establishment is closed, in order for the Gambotti family to return to their native Florence and reunite with all the other Gambottis.

Mario is quintessentially Italian. His red Ferrari can be seen parked outside the restaurant, his yacht — my son James assures me — is moored in Monte Carlo, and his children, Tony, Maria and Roberto, are being educated at St Paul’s, Cheltenham and Summer Fields respectively. After all, it is important that they mix with the sort of people they will be expected to fleece at some time in the future. And whenever I see them at the opera — Verdi and Puccini, never Wagner or Weber — they are always seated in their own box.

So, I hear you ask, how did such a shrewd and intelligent man end up serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure? Was he involved in some fracas following a football match between Arsenal and Fiorentina? Did he drive over the speed limit once too often in that Ferrari of his? Perhaps he forgot to pay his poll tax? None of the above. He broke an English law with an action that in the land of his forefathers would be considered no more than an acceptable part of everyday life.

Enter Mr Dennis Cartwright, who worked for another of Her Majesty’s establishments.

Mr Cartwright was an inspector with the Inland Revenue. He rarely ate out at a restaurant, and certainly not one as exclusive as Mario’s. Whenever he and his wife Doris ‘went Italian’, it was normally Pizza Express. However, he took a great interest in Mr Gambotti, and in how he could possibly maintain such a lifestyle on the amount he was declaring to his local tax office. After all, the restaurant was showing a profit of a mere £172,000, on a turnover of just over two million. So, after tax, Mr Gambotti was only taking home — Dennis carefully checked the figures — just over £100,000. With a home in Chelsea, three children at private schools and a Ferrari to maintain, not to mention the yacht moored in Monte Carlo, and heaven knows what else in Florence, how did he manage it? Mr Cartwright, a determined man, was determined to find out.

The tax inspector checked all the figures in Mario’s books, and he had to admit they balanced and, what’s more, Mr Gambotti always paid his taxes on time. However, Mr Cartwright wasn’t in any doubt that Mr Gambotti had to be siphoning off large sums of cash, but how? He must have missed something. Cartwright leapt up in the middle of the night and shouted out loud, ‘No credit cards.’ He woke his wife.

The next morning, Cartwright went over the books yet again; he was right. There were no credit-card entries. Although all the cheques were properly accounted for, and all the customers’ accounts tallied, when you considered that there were no credit-card entries, the small amount of cash declared seemed completely out of proportion to the overall takings.

Mr Cartwright didn’t need to be told that his masters would not allow him to waste much time dining at Mario’s in order to resolve the mystery of how Mr Gambotti was salting away such large sums of money. Mr Buchanan, his supervisor, reluctantly agreed to allow Dennis an advance of £200 to try to discover what was happening on the inside — every penny was to be accounted for — and he only agreed to this after Dennis had pointed out that if he was able to gather enough evidence to put Mr Gambotti behind bars, imagine just how many other restaurateurs might feel obliged to start declaring their true incomes.

Mr Cartwright was surprised that it took him a month to book a table at Mario’s, and it was only after several calls, always made from home, that he finally was able to secure a reservation. He asked his wife Doris to join him, hoping it would appear less suspicious than if he was sitting on his own, compiling notes. His supervisor agreed with the ploy, but told Dennis that he would have to cover his wife’s half of the bill, at his own expense.

‘It never crossed my mind to do otherwise,’ Dennis assured his supervisor.

During a meal of Tuscan bean soup and gnocchi — he was hoping to pay more than one visit to Mario’s — Dennis kept a wary eye on his host as he circled the different tables, making small talk and attending to his customers’ slightest whims. His wife couldn’t help but notice that Dennis seemed distracted, but she decided not to comment, as it was a rare occurrence for her husband to invite her out for a meal, other than on her birthday.

Mr Cartwright began committing to memory that there were thirty-nine tables dotted around the restaurant (he double-checked) and roughly a hundred and twenty covers. He also observed, by taking time over his coffee, that Mario managed two sittings on several of the tables. He was impressed by how quickly three waiters could clear a table, replace the cloth and napkins, and moments later make it appear as if no one had ever been sitting there.

When Mario presented Mr Cartwright with his bill, he paid in cash and insisted on a receipt. When they left the restaurant, Doris drove them both home, which allowed Dennis to write down all the relevant figures in his little book while they still remained fresh in his memory.

‘What a lovely meal,’ commented his wife on their journey back to Romford. ‘I do hope that we’ll be able to go there again some time.’

‘We will, Doris,’ he promised her, ‘next week.’ He paused. If I can get a table.’

Mr and Mrs Cartwright visited the restaurant again three weeks later, this time for dinner. Dennis was impressed that Mario not only remembered his name, but even seated him at the same table. On this occasion, Mr Cartwright observed that Mario was able to fit in a pre-theatre booking — almost full; an evening sitting — packed out; and a post-theatre sitting — half full; while last orders were not taken until eleven o’clock.

Mr Cartwright estimated that nearly three hundred and fifty customers passed through the restaurant during the evening, and if you added that to the lunchtime clientele, the total came to just over five hundred a day. He also calculated that around half of them were paying cash, but he still had no way of proving it.

Dennis’s dinner bill came to £75 (it’s fascinating how restaurants appear to charge more in the evening than they do for lunch, even when they serve exactly the same food). Mr Cartwright estimated that each customer was being charged between £25 and £40, and that was probably on the conservative side. So in any given week, Mario had to be serving at least three thousand customers, returning him an income of around £90,000 a week, which was in excess of four million pounds a year, even if you discounted the month of August.

When Mr Cartwright returned to his office the following morning, he once again went over the restaurant’s books. Mr Gambotti was declaring a turnover of £2,120,000, and showing, after outgoings, a profit of £172,000. So what was happening to the other two million?

Mr Cartwright remained baffled. He took the ledgers home in the evening, and continued to study the figures long into the night.

‘Eureka,’ he declared just before putting on his pyjamas. One of the outgoings didn’t add up. The following morning he made an appointment to see his supervisor. ‘I’ll need to get my hands on the details of these particular weekly numbers,’ Dennis told Mr Buchanan, as he placed a forefinger on one of the items listed under outgoings, ‘and more important,’ he added, ‘without Mr Gambotti realizing what I’m up to.’ Mr Buchanan sanctioned a request for him to be out of the office, as long as it didn’t require any further visits to Mario’s.

Mr Cartwright spent most of the weekend refining his plan, aware that just the slightest hint of what he was up to would allow Mr Gambotti enough time to cover his tracks.

On Monday Mr Cartwright rose early and drove to Fulham, not bothering to check in at the office. He parked his Skoda down a side street that allowed him a clear view of the entrance to Mario’s restaurant. He removed a notebook from an inside pocket and began to write down the names of every tradesman who visited the premises that morning.

The first van to arrive and park on the double yellow line outside the restaurant’s front door was a well-known purveyor of vegetables, followed a few minutes later by a master butcher. Next to unload her wares was a fashionable florist, followed by a wine merchant, a fishmonger and finally the one vehicle Mr Cartwright had been waiting for — a laundry van. Once the driver had unloaded three large crates, dumped them inside the restaurant and come back out, lugging three more crates, he drove away. Mr Cartwright didn’t need to follow the van as the company’s name, address and telephone number were emblazoned across both sides of the vehicle.

Mr Cartwright returned to the office, and was seated behind his desk just before midday. He reported immediately to his supervisor, and sought his authority to make a spot-check on the company concerned. Mr Buchanan again sanctioned his request, but on this occasion recommended caution. He advised Cartwright to carry out a routine enquiry, so that the company concerned would not work out what he was really looking for. ‘It may take a little longer,’ Buchanan added, ‘but it will give us a far better chance of success in the long run. I’ll drop them a line today, and then you can fix up a meeting, at their convenience.’

Dennis went along with his supervisor’s suggestion, which meant that he didn’t turn up at the offices of the Marco Polo laundry company for another three weeks. On arrival at the laundry, by appointment, he made it clear to the manager that his visit was nothing more than a routine check, and he wasn’t expecting to find any irregularities.

Dennis spent the rest of the day checking through every one of their customers’ accounts, only stopping to make detailed notes whenever he came across an entry for Mario’s restaurant. By midday he had gathered all the evidence he needed, but he didn’t leave Marco Polo’s offices until five, so that no one would become suspicious. When Dennis departed for the day, he assured the manager that he was well satisfied with their bookkeeping, and there would be no follow-up. What he didn’t tell him was that one of their most important customers would be followed up.

Mr Cartwright was seated at his desk by eight o’clock the following morning, making sure his report was completed before his boss appeared.

When Mr Buchanan walked in at five to nine, Dennis leapt up from behind his desk, a look of triumph on his face. He was just about to pass on his news, when the supervisor placed a finger to his lips and indicated that he should follow him through to his office. Once the door was closed, Dennis placed the report on the table and took his boss through the details of his enquiries. He waited patiently while Mr Buchanan studied the documents and considered their implications. He finally looked up, to indicate that Dennis could now speak.

‘This shows,’ Dennis began, ‘that every day for the past twelve months Mr Gambotti has sent out two hundred tablecloths and over five hundred napkins to the Marco Polo laundry. If you then look at this particular entry,’ he added, pointing to an open ledger on the other side of the desk, ‘you will observe that Gambotti is only declaring a hundred and twenty bookings a day, for around three hundred customers.’ Dennis paused before delivering his accountant’s coup de grâce. ‘Why would you need a further three thousand tablecloths and forty-five thousand napkins to be laundered every year, unless you had another forty-five thousand customers?’ he asked. He paused once again. ‘Because he’s laundering money,’ said Dennis, clearly pleased with his little pun.

‘Well done, Dennis,’ said the head of department. ‘Prepare a full report and I’ll see that it ends up on the desk of our fraud department.’

Try as he might, Mario could not explain away 3,000 tablecloths and 45,000 napkins to Mr Gerald Henderson, his cynical solicitor. The lawyer only had one piece of advice for his client, ‘Plead guilty, and I’ll see if I can make a deal.’

The Inland Revenue successfully claimed back two million pounds in taxes from Mario’s restaurant, and the judge sent Mario Gambotti to prison for six months. He ended up only having to serve a four-week sentence — three months off for good behaviour and, as it was his first offence, he was put on a tag for two months.

Mr Henderson, an astute lawyer, even managed to get the trial set in the court calendar for the last week in July. He explained to the presiding judge that it was the only time Mr Gambotti’s eminent QC would be available to appear before his lordship. The date of 30 July was agreed by all parties.

After a week spent in Belmarsh high-security prison in south London, Mario was transferred to North Sea Camp open prison in Lincolnshire, where he completed his sentence. Mario’s lawyer had selected the prison on the grounds that he was unlikely to meet up with many of his old customers deep in the fens of Lincolnshire.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Gambotti family flew off to Florence for the month of August, not able fully to explain to the grandmothers why Mario couldn’t be with them on this occasion.

Mario was released from North Sea Camp at nine o’clock on Monday, 1 September.

As he walked out of the front gate, he found Tony seated behind the wheel of his Ferrari, waiting to pick his father up. Three hours later Mario was standing at the front door of his restaurant to greet the first customer. Several regulars commented on the fact that he appeared to have lost a few pounds while he’d been away on holiday, while others remarked on how tanned and fit he looked.

Six months after Mario had been released, a newly promoted deputy supervisor decided to carry out another spot-check on Marco Polo’s laundry. This time Dennis turned up unannounced. He ran a practised eye over the books, to find that Mario’s was now sending only 120 tablecloths to the laundry each day, along with 300 napkins, despite the fact that the restaurant appeared to be just as popular. How was he managing to get away with it this time?

The following morning Dennis parked his Skoda down a side street off the Fulham Road once again, allowing him an uninterrupted view of Mario’s front door. He felt confident that Mr Gambotti must now be using more than one laundry service, but to his disappointment the only van to appear and deposit and collect any laundry that day was Marco Polo’s.

Mr Cartwright drove back to Romford at eight that evening, completely baffled. Had he hung around until just after midnight, Dennis would have seen several waiters leaving the restaurant, carrying bulging sports bags with squash racquets poking out of the top. Do you know any Italian waiters who play squash?

Mario’s staff were delighted that their wives could earn some extra cash by taking in a little laundry each day, especially as Mr Gambotti had supplied each of them with a brand-new washing machine.

I booked a table for lunch at Mario’s on the Friday after I had been released from prison. He was standing on the doorstep, waiting to greet me, and I was immediately ushered through to my usual table in the corner of the room by the window, as if I had never been away.

Mario didn’t bother to offer me a menu because his wife appeared out of the kitchen carrying a large plate of spaghetti, which she placed on the table in front of me. Mario’s son Tony followed close behind with a steaming bowl of Bolognese sauce, and his daughter Maria with a large chunk of Parmesan cheese and a grater.

‘A bottle of Chianti classico?’ suggested Mario, as he removed the cork. ‘On the house,’ he insisted.

‘Thank you, Mario,’ I said, and whispered, ‘by the way, the governor of North Sea Camp asked me to pass on his best wishes.’

‘Poor Michael,’ Mario sighed, ‘what a sad existence. Can you begin to imagine a lifetime spent eating toad-in-the-hole, followed by semolina pudding?’ He smiled as he poured me a glass of wine. ‘Still, maestro, you must have felt quite at home.’